


Do I Want to Allow Change?

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Christmas Party, Developing Friendships, Drinking & Talking, M/M, Rammstein Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28325775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: Flake works as a history teacher at a high school in Berlin. Work keeps him busy. He didn't plan on forming attachments.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz | Flake
Comments: 17
Kudos: 28





	Do I Want to Allow Change?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Inchy. I hope this came out satisfactory enough. This AU warrants more than just one part, but maybe I'll get to that later in time. Thanks for being there for me, you really have contributed to my sanity and sparks of happiness throughout the year. Let's look forward to finally meeting in 2021. ♡

Mornings like these really shouldn’t be labeled as such. The sun is barely peeking out beyond the horizon. It’s still dark enough outside to warrant going back to bed. It’s so cold, his bones creak, and his blood drifts rather than pumps. There must be a word for it. Oh, right—isn’t it dawn? He can barely keep track of which one is dawn, and which one is dusk. He’s pretty sure dawn is morning time… It’s not like he’d remember much this early in the morning, regardless. No, he’s pretty much on auto-pilot. Shrugging into his thick coat, rubbing at his eyes past the frame of his glasses, he barely has the physical energy to reach up and unhook his car keys from their place by the door. In his free hand he holds his laptop bag which contains… Well, his laptop. As well as other necessities for the work day. He puts his left shoe on his right foot by mistake, and decides today is going to be interesting.

In the parking lot, he recognizes _his_ car, parked under the tree at the far right of the lot, as always. When the final bell rings and everyone disperses, Flake always watches him walk across the lot to reach that Volkswagen, waving goodbye to students and their parents, exchanging brief conversation with whomever stops him. Thus, Flake is convinced he only parks far over there for that sole purpose: giving people more opportunity to obtain closure for the day. Flake is the opposite. He parks as close as possible to his side of the school—if only to diminish the distance between the door and his car. Maybe that makes him a grumpy old man. He would accept that.

Once parked with the engine off, Flake tucks his keys into his coat pocket and gathers his things. Sniffling all the while, Flake steps out of his car, one sleek dress shoe following the other. He snaps the door shut behind himself, double checks he actually has his car keys in his pocket, before sleepily striding his way up to the front door, beanie pulled low over his brow. Tugging the front door open, a gust of warm air hits him. That feels quite good. Flake relaxes, slipping into the entrance of the school.

He raises a hand in greeting to the women in the office, and slips into the teacher’s lounge. The clock on the wall reads 6:36. _He_ is standing at the coffee maker, back to him. He’s wearing that long, black cardigan tastefully tattered at the hem. He always wears that thing during the winter. To be fair, it does look good on him. Flake drops his stuff on one of the circular tables, a low thump of his laptop bag, a clatter of his keys. Landers turns to look over; he grins, and those crow’s feet fan out.

“Morning!” he greets, “Want a cup?”

“Yeah,” Flake replies lowly, voice roughened just a bit from a combination of disuse and exhaustion, “And good morning.”

“I’d say seven out of ten, today.”

Approaching the counter, Flake, slipping his beanie off and revealing his totally disheveled hair, says with complete bewilderment, “What?”

Landers’ grin becomes cheeky.

“On a scale of how tired you sound today. I always rate it to myself, because it’s funny, but I figured I could share my little game with you.”

“Are you that bored in the morning? Rating your coworkers’ state of exhaustion?” Flake ponders lowly, grabbing his mug from the cabinet in a rather lethargic manner; he realizes he’s still wearing his coat. Setting his mug down, Flake unzips it and slips it off, revealing the black button-up shirt below. Landers shrugs, Flake sees in his peripheral vision. Turning back to the table, Flake steps close enough to toss his coat onto a chair, and then rejoins the other man at the counter. Landers smiles faintly at him, holding out the pot of coffee. When Flake grips the handle, their fingers press together. Landers slips his out from under Flake’s. His fingers were cold. Landers speaks with quiet amusement in his voice.

“If it interests you more, I could reveal my ranking when it came to looks, but I guess that could be considered sexual harassment depending on who you ask.”

“Who’s number one?”

Landers hums. Flake already knows, because it’s obvious.

“Schneider,” they both say in unison, Flake’s lower voice overpowering Landers’, both in pitch and flat tone. Landers looks at him, eyebrows raised. Flake stifles his amused smile, though his dimples become accentuated from the effort so it’s quite transparent.

“You think he’s good looking?” Landers asks, his voice light and pleasantly surprised. Flake has to laugh at that. He turns to face the other man, hip to the counter. With one arm crossed over his chest, hand hooked into his elbow, he brings his mug to his mouth. Staring into Landers’ amused eyes, Flake speaks flatly.

“If you don’t think he’s good looking, you’re in denial, especially if you’re a man. Denying it would warrant jealousy.”

Landers laughs.

“You could have both. Appreciation and jealousy.”

“Of course.”

They stand together silently for a moment, sipping at their coffee. Two things sit at the forefront of Flake’s mind: he has to head to his classroom soon, and he wants to know where he sits on Landers’ ranking list. But he also does not want to know. He knows it would be disappointing, if even insulting. Typically how it goes for him. So, he doesn’t ask.

“You’re second on the list,” Landers exhales in a sigh as if he could sense Flake’s burning question, bringing his mug down again to cradle it in his hands, “And then Oliver. I always liked a man who could use my head as an arm rest.”

Flake would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so stunned by that abrupt confession. He blinks widely at the other man. Landers must be pulling his leg. He adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose, sardonically smiling, his lips tight.

“You’re joking.”

“No, I swear it!” Landers remarks, a grave expression adorning his face, “You are handsome. And, I mean, it’s not much of a competition along the board.”

“Uh, Kruspe? Koch? Heitmann. Heine. The list is longer if we’re including our female colleagues.”

Landers waves him off lazily, a smile curling at his lips, mid-drink. He takes a moment to lick his lips, peeking over at him with a sly grin on his face. He answers a bit too casually, leaning back into the counter now as he swept his gaze up along Flake’s form.

“It’s a matter of taste. Of opinion.”

He sticks his tongue out at him, childishly, and then gestures to this innocuous box that Flake hadn’t noticed until now, perched on the counter beside the coffee machine.

“Richard brought in donuts.”

Flake pauses, staring at it. Landers reaches out to flip up the lid, grinning.

“Got a sweet tooth, don’t you?” He pushes the box a little closer to Flake. Flake pans his gaze across the donuts and then huffs. He reaches out to grab one.

“Mind your business.”

Landers laughs. A low, throaty chuckle—it has Flake internalizing a smile. Landers downs the remainder of his coffee, sighs in delight, and steps around Flake to reach the sink. Flake hears him rinse his mug and set it down to dry in the rack.

“Gotta get to class. See you later, Lorenz.”

Flake hesitates, turning slightly to look at him as he thoughtfully brought the donut to his pouting mouth. He takes a nibble at it, wondering if _Lorenz_ fits well enough anymore, from Landers. He did call Kruspe _Richard_ , after all. They’re friends then, right?

“Bye,” he says around the donut, the ending _ss_ a bit muffled against the pastry. Landers throws a sweet, departing smile his way, punctuated by a wave of a hand. Flake takes notice of his watch glinting under the light above them—looks expensive. Fancy. Flake isn’t into that sort of thing. He wears a multi-colored, gaudy looking watch himself, bought for like five euro at a market in Costa Rica. He supposes he’s more sentiment driven than indulgence driven—minus his classic car, which wasn’t exactly buyable with a couple paychecks. But that’s _different._

Landers slips out the door. Flake refocuses on his donut and coffee, contemplating their existence. He supposes he should follow suit and prepare for the day in his classroom, before the arrival of his students. But first things first: the complete consumption of this donut.

* * *

Things are relatively good. Flake enjoys his work, as much as he can. He finds his coworkers pleasant. The process of planning lessons and homework is something he feels skilled in, which, in result, gives him a sense of fulfillment. He is passionate about history—he finds it interesting and quite important. The students who show intrigue in the subjects they study do brighten his experience as a teacher. He greatly enjoys being able to talk about what he loves and for the students to return that enthusiasm. Sadly, it’s not as common as he’d like it to be.

Flake, overall, keeps to himself. He can exchange quiet pleasantries with his female colleagues, and occasionally interject in a conversation among students or teachers who he’s slightly more comfortable with, but he always has been the teacher that makes people nervous. Like no one can read him. They’re not quite sure what to do about him. He prefers it that way. He would hate it if he were like Landers: constantly stopped in his tracks to hold a conversation, with the expectation of being the happy, bubbly guy. The man who always has a joke ready to make you laugh. Flake wonders how he even has the energy for that. Flake can’t help but get a bit grumpy when he’s pulled aside in the hallway to be asked a question that really shouldn’t have been asked in the first place. Landers can turn it into an entire conversation that lasts far too long than it should.

That being said, he can’t help but admire that demeanor. It’s always good to have healthy relationships with your students. To be able to be relied on, and trusted. To be the teacher that students go to for guidance, maybe to even confide in. Flake, at this point, is beginning to wonder if he, too, is falling for Landers’ charm. After all, every morning he’s found himself looking for that one Volkswagen parked under that one tree, on the far side of the parking lot.

* * *

“A little group of us are heading to the bar for a Christmas get-together… Thing… This weekend. You should join us!”

Standing together at one of the fridges in the teacher’s lounge, Flake rummages around in his lunch bag, trying, and failing, to find his utensils, kept in one of his old glasses cases. He must have forgot to pack it this morning. Sighing, Flake realizes he’ll have to accept eating his pasta with one of the disposable forks provided for them. Landers clears his throat and knocks on the metal of the door. Flake lifts his head and peers at him, hands submerged in his bag.

“What? Sorry.”

Landers huffs, smiling weakly. He crosses his arms, shoulder to the fridge, and says, “I am inviting you, Lorenz. Come with us to drink.”

“When?” Flake asks, fixing the strap of his bag over his shoulder, snapping the door shut. Landers follows him to one of the tables. A small group of their female coworkers, two teachers, one from the office, sit nearby and chat animatedly. Flake begins unpacking his bag while Landers pulls out a chair and collapses into it. Standing, Flake focuses on snapping off the lids of his lunch containers while the other man goes on.

“This Saturday. Before we go on break.”

“Sure.”

Flake beelines to the counter to retrieve a wrapped fork from the drawer. Returning to the table, he takes a seat, crosses his legs, and scrapes his hair back from his forehead. He peeks up at Landers past the frame of his glasses. Landers is grinning.

“Well, that was easy. I thought I’d have to convince you.”

Flake begins stabbing a few pieces of cold rotini, along with a cherry tomato and olive. Shrugging, he meets Landers’ pleased gaze as he takes that bite into his mouth, saying, “Sounds like it could be fun. If it’s not, I’ll just leave.”

Landers nods in agreement, now fiddling with his wedding ring on his finger, spinning it mindlessly while he spoke.

“How much do you think you’d drink? Would you have a way to get home? We’re still trying to figure out drivers.”

Flake pauses. He nods thoughtfully, idly fiddling with his fork in his fingers.

“I can be a driver. Drinking doesn’t often lead to anything good for me. Best if I sit it out.”

“Well, you could have at least one or two beers, maybe. Just to be a part of it, you know? Then stick to water after that,” Landers replies with a laugh—he’s now popping his ring on and off his finger. Flake stares down at the motion, wondering why, exactly, he’s fidgeting so much. Flake has noticed his tendency to over-gesticulate, but fidgeting is something he hasn’t witnessed.

“I could do that,” Flake assents, peeking up to meet his gaze. Landers is smiling. Flake nods affirmatively and then brings a forkful of food to his mouth, lowering his eyes. Landers speaks happily.

“Great! I’ll let them know. It’ll be fun.”

Reaching out, Landers leans over across the table to reach into his bowl and steal a cherry tomato. He then rises with a scrape of his chair, popping the tomato into his mouth. Flake watches him go. Landers winks at him as he steps out of the room, chewing away.

Flake huffs. He was going to eat that.

* * *

Christmas decorations hang plentifully from the ceiling, wrapped around beams, framing the doors and windows. It’s a little crowded. People talk joyfully, sitting in groups or in pairs. Christmas music is playing from the radio. Flake finds it charming. Meanwhile, Landers groans to his left and says, “My eyes, I’m going to be blinded from all these lights! Imagine if you had epilepsy.”

“Doesn’t work like that,” Riedel replies from behind, “And it’s honestly not that common for epileptic people to be triggered by lights to begin with, flashing or not.”

“Okay, Mr. Physical Education,” Kruspe butts in, because of course he does, “And why would you know that?”

Flake decides he doesn’t care to listen anymore. He focuses on the scenery of this bar he’s never been to before. The decorations. The display of alcohol behind the counter. The sprawling arrangement of tables, most occupied by people. People with smiles, with glasses of drink, with scarves and coats. They find their own spot in a corner booth. Flake ends up between Landers and Riedel. Schneider and Kruspe sit across from them. Flake isn’t completely comfortable in this arrangement, but it is his first time in a while that he’s participated in such a thing with his coworkers. He only really went because Landers asked him.

“What the fuck is this,” Landers says with a laugh, earning Flake’s gaze. Turned at the waist, Landers reaches over and grabs something hanging from the wall above the booth. It’s a miniature chalkboard with an attached piece of chalk. It has writing from multiple visitors, it seems.

“Something for tourists, maybe,” Flake provides, shrugging a shoulder, “Write something.”

Landers was already reaching for the chalk before he finished speaking. Flake watches him write ‘ _Whoever’s reading this: watch your back!’_ Then he draws a sinister smiley face. Flake arches a brow. Landers is pretty devious. Landers laughs to himself and passes the chalkboard over. Flake grabs the chalk. In his peripheral, he notices Riedel has turned to look. It makes him a little nervous, but he begins writing anyways.

“’And… Wash your back’,” Landers speaks, reading aloud as Flake wrote, “Wow.”

Flake smiles very faintly, passing it back.

“I don’t know. You put me on the spot.”

“Next time, I’ll let you think on it,” Landers laughs, turning back to the wall to hang the chalkboard up on its designated nail. Flake faces the table again and sees Schneider rising, who, apparently, had been mid-discussion with Kruspe who is now waving him off while loudly saying, “Yeah, yeah! Go fetch us the drinks! Escape this losing argument!”

“It was never an argument!” Schneider protests with a laugh, “And it’s not going anywhere, so why continue it?”

“Whatever, _Chrissy_. Get me some vodka and lemon, thank you. And I’m still right.”

“Chrissy! You’re not getting anything now.”

Schneider turns away, approaching the bar. Riedel smoothly slips out of the booth to follow and, supposedly, help him place the order for the drinks everyone wants, because Schneider is destined to screw it up. As Landers has told Flake, at least—every time he gets it wrong, or simply forgets an entire drink for one man. Why they have him go and place the order is a mystery to him.

Suddenly, Landers is scoffing beside him, regaining Flake’s gaze—he has a disgusted expression on his face. Flake follows his line of sight and ends up looking at the TV playing news, of all fucking things. The topic seems to be about the current president of a country that shall not be named. Landers speaks with blatant annoyance in his voice.

“Why the hell should we care about that bullshit? Why do they even report on that nonsense? I don’t know if they forgot, but they’re based in Berlin. And, I know it’s hard to grasp but… That city… Is in _Germany_.”

Kruspe laughs from across the table. He’s digging out his pack of cigarettes and lighter from the pocket of his coat. Flake glances around for a no smoking sign. Kruspe speaks up, saying, “People don’t really care about clowns, and lions jumping through hoops, and elephants balancing on balls. None of that is relevant to their lives, but they go to the circus because it’s entertaining to watch. They can go to bed with a smile, after a day spent laughing at things that don’t affect them, about animal cruelty that isn’t done by their own hands.”

“Entertainment value,” Flake speaks up then, flatly, earning two pairs of eyes, “That’s what politics has come down to for people.”

“A lot of people, apparently,” Landers sighs, leaning back into the wall behind them. Kruspe cups a hand around his cigarette and lights up. Flake still has yet to spot a sign that _should_ be banning that.

“We can find a channel talking about Merkel if you want,” Kruspe says past a huffing laugh, plucking his cigarette from his lips to blow out the smoke, directed away from them. Landers makes a choking noise and shakes his hands desperately in denial. Flake smiles slightly, amused.

“When was the last time you tagged along with us, Lorenz?” Kruspe address him abruptly. Flake’s face straightens, surprised at the sudden interest in his presence.

“Last year. Landers’ birthday.”

“ _Paul’s_ birthday,” Landers pipes up, gently nudging him with his elbow. Flake huffs. He smiles dryly.

“Paul’s birthday,” he corrects himself, stiffly. Feels awkward on his tongue. Unwarranted.

“Oh, that’s right,” Kruspe muses. Landers sits up straighter beside Flake, providing helpfully with a blatant pout in his voice, “ _Herr Lorenz_ here couldn’t come this year because, apparently, he hurt his foot and didn’t feel like hobbling around for me.”

“I was on crutches for a week, Landers!” Flake shoots back with a sharp laugh, turning to look at him with appalment, “I almost died!”

Landers beams—obviously, quite pleased to witness Flake have an outburst, of all things. Flake becomes aware of this and contains himself again, shaking his head. Landers laughs instead.

“That’s just an excuse! You told me you fell out of bed! You made that up to skip out on me! Who the hell sprains their ankle falling out of bed?”

“Me!” Flake retorts, slapping his hand on the table, an animated, agitated response which has Landers laughing harder now, “I’ve told you: I’m clumsy! How many times have you witnessed me spilling coffee on myself? Nearly falling onto the floor just trying to step past all the damn tables in the lounge?”

“Just _move_ them!” Landers bursts out with a laugh, earning Flake’s wide-eyed gaze, “Why do you have so many near-death experiences in the morning? My God!”

Blushing, Flake tries to quell his nervous grin, but can’t help it. Kruspe is chuckling across the table, Landers is watching him with amusement on his face and an energetic fondness in his eyes that does something to Flake, enough to render him silent. Then Schneider and Riedel return.

“What are you doing to poor Lorenz?” Schneider asks past a laugh, setting three beers on the table carefully, gripped by their handles: just warm ups, for now. Kruspe gets his vodka placed before him by Riedel, who is given a sarcastic wink in return, and then Riedel drops into place beside Flake with his own drink in hand. Landers reaches out to slide his glass of beer closer, as does Flake, who is now feeling quite foolish and embarrassed. Landers will never let it go, and thus, it works him up solely because he’s had to defend himself so many times now. Kruspe takes a loving drink from his vodka, while Riedel and Schneider follow suit, eyes pinned on the pair. Landers elaborates for Flake, which isn’t necessarily a good thing.

“Punishing him for dodging my birthday celebration. He was mean and stayed home because he got a booboo. He agreed to let me kick his butt in repentance out back once we’re done with our drinks.”

“Oh, my God,” Flake sighs, leaning forward to knock his forehead into his raised fist. Kruspe bursts out a sharp laugh, and Landers giggles stupidly next to him. Schneider grins, foam sticking to his mustache.

“Can we watch?” Riedel asks from Flake’s left. Laughter breaks out across the table, and Flake feels his ears burning. He miserably brings his beer to his mouth, head hung. Landers wraps his arm around his back and pulls him in for a side hug. He speaks to him teasingly, close to his ear, heard past the laughter of their coworkers, the noise of the bar, the Christmas music: “I’ll be gentle, Lorenz, promise. It won’t be that bad.”

“You’re such an idiot,” Flake groans, a heat bursting throughout his face. He gently elbows him away while Landers snorts unattractively and knocks his hand into Flake’s side below the table.

* * *

It was surprisingly fun. Per Landers’ suggestion, he had that one beer and stuck to water ever since. It’s quite the evening just to sit and listen to that group of morons quip back and forth, or talk shit about something or other. Flake is the type to merely listen, to throw in an interjection here and there to stir the pot further or to evoke laughter.

Eventually, a few hours into this, Schneider gets a conveniently timed text from his wife, saying she’s coming early to pick him up because their children demand his presence. Naturally, this prompted drunken teasing from the group (sound effects of a cracking whip from Landers especially), until Schneider took a shameful walk out the door, freshly bundled up in his coat and scarf, only to greet his wife at the car. Soon followed was Riedel, who is known for dipping out the door almost immediately after the first person goes. Kruspe and Landers could talk for hours and hours, and at this point, as the conversation never ends and the drinks keep coming, Flake wonders how long he’s going to be kept prisoner here.

It’s only after he’s really become quite tired of listening to their bullshit does he decide to speak up during the very, very brief moment of silence while both men downed the remainder of their drinks.

“I believe I’m finished with this,” Flake says flatly, earning a glassy-eyed stare from Landers, while Kruspe himself struggled through lighting up his fifth cigarette of the night, “If you make me sit here for another five minutes listening to this crap, I will simply go home.”

“Nooo, no!” Landers moans, reaching out to hook a hand around his bicep, “Lorenz, listen, I want you to take m’home. You. Forget about a dumb cab. They like, hike the prices, and I’ve alr'dy spent like… A lot.”

“So it’s about monetary reasons,” Flake hums, staring down at him with dry amusement in his eyes, “I see. Well, you can take advantage of my offer, then. But it has a five minute expiration.”

“No!” Landers denies this hurtfully, eyes wide and pleading, which is, honestly, quite funny to witness. Flake was joking, but it seems Landers could not sense that. He continues on, that slur rushed and stumbling as he struggled to regather Flake’s crumbling impression of him, “Not at all! Didn’t mean it like that, at all! You really think I only care about money? Pffft, yeah right! I just want you to drive me. Jeez!”

Flake has to smile if only to restrain his grin.

“Well, coincidentally, I have offered to give you a ride home.”

“Richard, too!”

Flake nods.

“Him as well.”

“Great, I don’t feel like calling a cab,” Kruspe sighs, expelling another burst of smoke for the thousandth time already, which is truly obnoxious at this point. Flake gently works his arm out from Landers’ hold. He stands. The other two follow suit, only wobblier.

After spending the remaining five minutes of their stay making sure all was paid for and bladders are emptied in the bathrooms, Flake hustles both of his swaddled, drunk coworkers out of the bar. They both immediately complain about the cold. It’s snowing. Flake always liked the visuals of a snowy winter—not so much the physical result of it. He can see his breath as he leads the other two to his car, walking ahead of them now through the crisp, chilly air. He hears Landers mumbling about how he can barely walk. Kruspe does actually slip on the snow and land on his hands and knees with a flying curse. Landers bursts out laughing. Flake looks over to see Kruspe struggling to get up, and Landers leaning over at the waist to grab at the other man with gloved hands. Landers’ laughter and Kruspe’s panicked screaming is filling the parking lot. Flake shakes his head with a slight smile.

“Stop it, Paul! You keep pushing me down, you’re not fucking helping!” Kruspe yells at the other man, and then Landers proceeds to slip as well and land on top of him. They’re acting like a pair of penguins based on how much they squirm, all bundled up in thick coats and scarves. Kruspe has given up. He splays out, head dropped back into the snowy pavement. Landers is laughing up a lung, slumped over him, smacking a hand against Kruspe’s chest. The door to the bar opens up and a group of girls come out. That has them really struggling to get up, Kruspe cursing angrily at the elder man for being a stupid idiot. Flake has to laugh. He gets the driver’s door unlocked and opened, as well as the passenger side. Leaning in, he pulls on the lever that bends the front seat forward, so one man can slip into the back.

Landers and Kruspe seem to have been able to rise after all—the risk of challenging one’s manliness has always been an effective form of motivation. They rush over to the car, a big, dumb grin on Landers’ face, a pinched scowl on Kruspe’s.

“Just get in already, before I leave you here,” Flake says, past an ill-hidden laugh. Kruspe crawls lethargically into the backseat, covered in snow up his back and ass. Evidently, the price of kindness is a wet backseat, which, truly, is an exorbitant cost considering how much money Flake put into the leather. Whatever. He doesn’t kick up a fuss. Snapping the front seat back into place, Landers then drops clumsily into the passenger’s seat. Flake shuts the door after him. Once situated in his spot as the driver, Flake starts the car and cranks up the heat.

Kruspe’s place is closer. For the majority of the drive there, he and Landers drunkenly go back and forth about a previous argument they had earlier in the bar. Flake tunes it out and instead admires the snow that begins to fall lightly, building on the windshield. Both broad hands on the wheel, he sinks into the calming atmosphere of driving, and for once, the other two have fallen silent. It’s almost peaceful, until Kruspe speaks up to direct him where to go, and where to park. And then they’re exchanging goodnight’s and it was fun’s, and off Kruspe goes. Flake sits there, watching, until Kruspe shuts the front door of his place behind himself. He already knows where Landers lives. He backs out, turns onto the road, and continues on.

“Are you married, Lorenz?” Landers asks only just a minute into the drive. Flake, taken by surprise by this question, looks at him. Landers is sitting slumped over into his hand, elbow against the door, his glassy eyes trained on the other man. Flake looks back out towards the road.

“No.”

“Divorced?”

“No.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

Flake looks at him again, this time with a puzzled expression. Landers laughs, sitting up straighter, and fixing his coat while he said, “I just don’t know much about you, is all! Isn’t this a part of building a friendship? Asking questions? Learning more about the other person?”

“I’m not seeing anyone, no,” Flake replies lowly, refocusing on the road. Enabling the turn signal, he comes to a stop at a turn and waits for oncoming traffic to pass. He takes the time to look at Landers, who is gazing at him with a slight smile and a cocked brow.

“Why not?”

Flake shrugs. He scratches at the back of his neck, under the curls of hair found at his nape.

“No time. Not interested. Haven’t found the right person.”

“Right… Well, you don’t want to die alone, do you?”

Flake’s heart tightens at that, a bloom of anxiety spreading throughout his chest. He clenches his jaw, staring out the windshield. Eyes growing distant, Flake can’t help but think it’s only appropriate that it were to end like that.

“Coast is clear, buddy,” Landers laughs lightly, gesturing past the windshield. Flake realizes he’d been sitting in the road like an idiot. He regathers himself and presses the gas, turning onto the street where Landers’ house sits.

“It’s not something I would force,” Flake says, voice flat, eyes trained on the road. Landers hums thoughtfully. They drive in silence for a minute, until Flake slows to a stop along the sidewalk in front of Landers’ home. Landers’ Volkswagen sits in front of them, parked. A long, deep exhale is released from Landers, earning Flake’s gaze again.

Landers stares ahead for a moment, and then looks at him. Flake isn’t sure what to say here. Landers has a strange expression on his face; almost somber.

“Uh, goodnight, then,” Flake produces, offering the faintest hint of a smile, “Thanks for inviting me… It’s probably better for me to go out once in a while.”

“It was nice having you there,” Landers says truthfully, his voice low and quiet. He searches in Flake’s eyes, his own smile not quite broad enough to be considered genuine. Flake wonders what’s up with him. Landers unbuckles his seatbelt, reaches out to curl his fingers into the handle of the door. But he hesitates. Obviously, he has something more to say. Flake waits patiently, watching him. Landers purses his lips, staring down at his lap. He begins toying with the end of his scarf.

“I’m… I’m contemplating separating from my wife,” he murmurs stiffly, a confession that startles Flake purely on how private and serious it is. Landers goes on, eyes kept low. “I don’t want to divorce her but… I want to have other people in my life. And I mean, we talked about it. And… Reluctantly, she agreed. That I see other people, under some conditions. But... I… Well. Truth be told, I am not only into women, you see. A man like me can only be tethered to one person, to one gender for so long. You know?”

He finally looks up at Flake. Flake furrows his brow tightly.

“No… Not really,” he murmurs, feeling particularly unequipped for this conversation. Landers truly just came out to him, didn’t he? Well, this was unexpected. Flake has never experienced this before. He was under the impression Landers was very straight, and very much into _only_ women. That being said, heterosexuality is the default expectation, isn’t it?

“Uff, this is probably sudden and… Stupid,” Landers sighs, sagging forward to press his face into his hands, elbows against his knees, “Don’t need to go telling you about this stuff, do I, Lorenz? I’m still a bit drunk… And… Well…”

Flake hesitates, watching him with a quick heart and warming cheeks. He folds his arms, tucking his hands close to his sides. He waits patiently.

“I just… Got a feeling,” Landers whispers, keeping his face in his hands, “That… Maybe you’re in the same boat as me. I wanted to confide in someone that would listen… And understand.”

“You think I’m into men, too?” Lorenz asks with appalment, just _barely_ able to contain his nervous stutter, teetering on his tongue and clenching around his teeth. Landers drops his hand and looks at him with a weak smile. He looks embarrassed. Landers shrugs a little.

“You show no interest whatsoever towards the attractive women in our offices. And your comment earlier, about Schneider…”

Flake silently sits there, staring ahead at Landers’ Volkswagen as he listens to this. Landers huffs a slight laugh. That regains Flake’s gaze. Landers continues, his lips curling into an amused smile, searching in Flake’s eyes.

“And I saw you checking out Richard… When we played strip poker last year, at his birthday party.”

Despite the tension, Flake can’t help but burst out a dry laugh and look at him with alarm.

“You can’t be serious! You two, and his girlfriend, were the only nearly-naked people in the room! It’s bound to earn some staring. It was just weird! T-Two of my coworkers, playing something like that, when I was anticipating something m _mm_ -more casual!”

Landers is grinning broadly now, evidently quite amused. Flake curses his stutter. It always incriminates him. Landers goes on, giggling as he spoke.

“We were extremely wasted, Lorenz, we weren’t going to sit there and just chat about the weather! He had a deck of cards, what else would we do with it?”

Gripping the steering wheel, Flake leans in to knock his forehead into his knuckles, cheeks hot. Okay, maybe he was ogling, just a bit. Landers has really good-looking legs, and Kruspe has a quite nicely defined chest.

“It was mostly out of envy,” Flake mumbles. Landers laughs.

“No way. You’re not getting out of it with that excuse. You were looking at him like you would eat his birthday cake off his chest and abs.”

“Don’t be gross,” Flake moans. Chuckling, Landers reaches out to nudge him on the arm, earning a peek of one blue eye.

“Come on, be real with me. You have at least some sexual interest in men, right? I mean, look at the way you dress! Those shiny dress shoes! Only a gay man would wear something like that to his teaching job at a shitty high school in Berlin.”

A grin splits across Flake’s face at that, bringing out his dimples. He reaches out to smack Landers on the bicep in return, though it’s easily buffered by his thick coat. Landers laughs. Flake huffs, lifting his head from the wheel, sitting back into his seat with a sigh.

“How would I know that this conversation won’t be echoed to Richard or Schneider? You’re asking me about really private things, Landers.”

“Call me Paul, for fuck’s sake,” Landers moans, running both hands over his face before gesturing towards the other man, exclaiming, “I’m serious! Enough with that ‘Landers’ crap. We’re friends."

“Alright, alright, fine,” Flake mumbles, frowning. Paul nods with satisfaction.

“Good. And you know I’m a trustworthy person! Remember the time we were at that meeting with the superintendent, and you excused yourself to vomit but didn’t tell anyone? I knew what it was, but I didn’t say a thing!”

“That is definitely not the same,” Flake replies, unable to help but laugh aloud. Paul huffs and continues, stubbornly.

“Or the time you told me that you were considering transferring to another school! I didn’t tell a soul, not even Schneider!”

Okay, well, that’s true. Flake silently watches him, contemplating, and then exhales deeply. He knows Paul is a good guy. He isn’t the type to throw you under the bus, or air out your dirty laundry. Flake wants to trust him, but opening up isn’t exactly easy for him, regardless. Fuck it. Paul just told him he wants to see other people, remaining married to his wife. That’s called… Being a swinger, right? If that isn’t a confession to warrant trust, then he’s not sure what is.

“I’m not into women at all,” Flake murmurs, “But frankly, I’m not into people much in general. My romantic and sexual interest has been considerably absent ever since my last relationship.”

“What happened, to ruin your interest so much?” Paul asks, in a softer tone now—he sounds genuinely concerned. Flake presses his lips together. His throat is tight, and his tongue feels heavy. He speaks slowly, quietly, squeezing his eyes shut as he focused intently on speech.

“Something… No one should go through. I can’t—can’t go into it now. I think telling you about my sexual orientation is enough for today.”

He scratches at his nose with his right hand, attempting to hide his face from Paul, who is staring at him quite intently. Paul is silent for a moment.

“Okay. I understand. Thanks for confiding in me… And listening, I guess.”

Flake nods a little.

“And Christian?”

That name startles Flake so harshly, he actually flinches and looks at Paul with shock. A dumb, drunk grin is on Paul’s face. Flake doesn’t expect it when he plants a hand on the console and leans over to peck him on the cheek. Flake’s face bursts aflame. He stares, wide-eyed, at Paul when the elder man dropped back into his seat, a smug smile on his face, accentuating his crow’s feet and laugh lines. His gray beard had tickled Flake’s face—that itchy feeling remains, and Flake can’t help but reach up and rub at it.

“You _are_ second on the list,” Paul reaffirms, grinning broadly now. Then, abruptly, he pushes open the door and steps out into the gently falling snow. Snapping the door shut, he leans over just to peek into the window and wave with a smile. Flake lifts a hand dumbly in a weak return of the gesture, expression completely bewildered. He watches Paul hurry around the car and make for his front door, shuffling through the cold air and lingering snow. His scarf slips from his shoulders and falls to land atop the icy pathway leading up to his house. Paul doesn’t notice. Flake stares at it, at its dark, lumpy shape atop the snow-dusted pavement. Paul slips into his house, shutting the door behind himself. Lips pressed, Flake sits there contemplatively, unsure if he should let it sit there for Paul to find in the morning, to text him and alert him of its abandonment, or get out and grab it himself. Normally, Flake Lorenz would speed off before even thinking to step out of his nice, warm car, sacrificing his own comfort for the unnecessary act of saving a scarf which will be just as fine found frozen in the morning. All it would need is to be hung and dried.

Instead, what he does now, is dig out his small notepad he keeps in the console of his car for any sudden inspiration that may strike him while out and about, whether it be for his lessons or personal writing. He slides the pen off from the notepad, clicks it, and leans in close to see through the dim lighting provided by the street lamp nearby.

“ _It’s not ‘Christian’,_ ” he writes in big letters, “ _It’s Flake._ ”

He rips off the page, drops the notepad and pen into the console, and steps out of his car. Approaching the fallen scarf, sadly waiting for rescue, Flake snatches it up, shakes it off, and brings it to the front door. He neatly folds the scarf, sets it down on the untainted front step, and slips the note in-between the folds.

The chilly night air is really biting into his nose and ears now. He turns away and scurries back to his car. With the engine on idle, heater running, Flake pulls out his phone and texts Paul. In a single, simple sentence, he alerts the other man that he did, indeed, drop his scarf outside. Then he sets his phone in his lap, switches the gear out of park, and pulls away from the sidewalk with a whirr of the engine.

Flake doesn’t check his phone again until he’s back in his flat, slipping off his coat and hanging it by the door. There, he fishes out his phone and taps the screen. Notifications pop up. The first is a text message from Paul. Flake’s eyes are drawn to it. He reads it with a faint smile sitting behind his lips.

“ _Thanks, Flake._ ”

Rather than a period, it’s punctuated with a winking emoji, or whatever the kids call it. Flake unlocks his phone and stares at the opened text conversation. He pauses when the typing bubble pops up, indicating Paul is preparing another message. It doesn’t take long. It comes through.

“ _Goodnight!_ ”

This time, it’s joined by a blushing smiley face. That one has Flake coyly smiling. Paul is such an idiot when he’s drunk.

Actually, he’s always an idiot. But a cute one.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


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